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<title>the stroke of death is as a lover's pinch (which HURTS and is DESIRED). by pansexual_intellectual</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049401">the stroke of death is as a lover's pinch (which HURTS and is DESIRED).</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansexual_intellectual/pseuds/pansexual_intellectual'>pansexual_intellectual</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the momentary image of certain passions [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Percy Jackson and the Olympians &amp; Related Fandoms - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Study, Implied Nico di Angelo/Percy Jackson - Freeform, M/M, Past Nico di Angelo/Will Solace, prose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:36:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,340</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049401</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansexual_intellectual/pseuds/pansexual_intellectual</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, fuck.” Mysterious Stranger says, shaking his head in mock-regret. He pauses, and then extends a hand. “Nico di Angelo.”</p><p>Harry tilts his head, and then shakes his hand. It’s rougher than his own, he notices in surprise, every inch calloused and scarred. He looks so delicate; Harry can tell he isn’t. “Harry Potter. You new?”</p><p>“Mmm. Sort of.” Nico says, and then laughs. “You carry death like a shroud, ever noticed that?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nico di Angelo &amp; Harry Potter, Nico di Angelo/Harry Potter, Nico di Angelo/Percy Jackson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the momentary image of certain passions [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216784</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>190</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the stroke of death is as a lover's pinch (which HURTS and is DESIRED).</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>is it shit?  yes.</p><p>is it good shit? why don't you find out for yourself?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sixth year. They’re on the train and the shadows bleed silver. Harry’s done enough, he thinks blindly, <em>I’ve done enough</em>, but he can feel it already- the claws of another onerous year seizing him. God, what’ll it be this time? Another basilisk? Another professor with Tom Riddle under his turban?</p><p>Dryly, he thinks of summer with the Dursleys, wonders what they’re doing. Having dinner, probably. Aunt Petunia cooking a roast, Dudley forking a slice of meat in his mouth, Uncle Vernon grinning smugly. Suburbia’s never sounded so enticing, nor so repulsive.</p><p>And look, Harry’s a goddamn soldier now, okay. He knows how these things work, knows the reflex-flicker of suspicion, knows if ignores his instincts, it’ll come back to bite him in the arse later. Draco Malfoy’s a Death Eater, he’d bet his life on it.</p><p>“Malfoy’s a spineless fucking twat,” Ron says, succintly, “But you have no evidence yet, Haz.”</p><p>Hermione nods, worriedly, and Harry gets to his feet- abrupt, a jolting movement that does nothing to dampen his restlessness. He needs to fly, maybe, or to run, to run and never stop. He can’t stay <em>still</em>.</p><p>“I need to- fresh air,” Harry mutters, and ducks out of the compartment, pacing along the length of the train carpet. He passes familiar faces behind glass, laughing and talking and consumed in each other, without glancing at one.</p><p>“Harry!” </p><p>Harry glances behind him, sees Ginny. Her hair is shining, Harry notices idly. It’s always been shiny, but it’s- is it a different color? Red, ripe like strawberries.</p><p>“Hey,” Ginny breathes, looking worried. “Are you alright?”</p><p>He doesn’t particularly feel like talking. He nods, jerkily.</p><p>There’s a moment of confusion, both of them trying to edge around each other, and then Harry ducks around her and goes further. He passes Malfoy’s compartment, thinks about barging in and confronting him, but what does it matter? Another year, another inch of innocence blackened, maybe another life lost. Cedric in fourth year, Sirius in fifth year… Who next? Remus? Malfoy? (Christ, he thinks wryly, he could be so lucky.)</p><p>He finds the very last compartment of the train, the crimped metal of the air vent, the chill of the windowpane. Harry presses his face against that ice, that glacial glass, and tries to breathe. In. Out. He feels so much older than he is.</p><p>“Brooding? Thought I’d cornered the market on that.”</p><p>Slowly, Harry lifts his head. It’s an unfamiliar voice, attached to an unfamiliar face. Italian accent, he notes absently, mixed with American. Slender to the point of thinness, tangled black hair, dark eyes. Long eyelashes, so thick they blot out his irises.</p><p>Mysterious Stranger’s in Muggle Clothes, ripped jeans and a black band T shirt that he’s fairly sure he’s seen one of Dudley’s gang wear. It looks much better on Mysterious Stranger, hanging off him aesthetically. He looks like a punk, and hey, look, there’s a skull ring on his middle finger. Called it.</p><p>“Nah, mate.” Harry says, after a moment. “Don’t think you’re legally allowed to have a monopoly on brooding, as a concept. Not fair to the little people, innit?”</p><p>Mysterious Stranger smirks and leans against the glass of the train door, sliding a hand into his pocket. He looks so <em>cool</em> that Harry momentarily forgets that, you know, Voldemort’s alive and kicking, Malfoy’s probably helping him, and someone’s maybe/definitely going to die this year. “What are you, a socialist? Don’t get moral on me, now.”</p><p>Harry grins. It feels strange on his face. He’s never met someone who’s comfortable with him like this, and it’s <em>fun</em>. Malfoy isn’t exactly easy to banter with, what with having the sense of humor of a ferret. <em>Ha</em>, ferret. “Always been one for equality, me.”</p><p>“Well, fuck.” Mysterious Stranger says, shaking his head in mock-regret. He pauses, and then extends a hand. “Nico di Angelo.”</p><p>Harry tilts his head, and then shakes his hand. It’s rougher than his own, he notices in surprise, every inch calloused and scarred. He looks so delicate; Harry can tell he isn’t. “Harry Potter. You new?”</p><p>“Mmm. Sort of.” Nico says, and then laughs. “You carry death like a shroud, ever noticed that?”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They’ve been talking for only a half-hour when Nico pauses, and peers at the landscape beyond the window, a phantasmagoria of smeared shadows and thorn-thickets. The shine of the windows - the orange light from the lamplight, the Muggle clothing and Nico’s rough laughter - procures an easy atmosphere. Nico’s legs, lean in black denim, splay carelessly across the seat, his hands are everywhere- quick, darting things, a new shape with every gesticulation. Like birds, his hands are, and Harry’s hardly the first person to use that particular metaphor but it feels like a revelation anyway.</p><p>Nico might be the most interesting person Harry’s ever met. “My dad’s rich as <em>hell</em>,” He says, and then tips his head back and laughs like he’s made a joke no one could possibly understand. (Harry wants to understand.) “Cedric Diggory, huh?” He murmurs after Harry tells him about the graveyard. “Sounds a bit like my ex-boyfriend, Will. Sexy as anything and popular with everyone, huh?”</p><p>“Your- what?” Harry falters, and Nico raises a brow, slouching nonchalantly. “Don’t tell me you thought I was <em>straight</em>.”</p><p>Harry swallows.</p><p>“<em>Seriously</em>?” Nico exclaims, frowning. “Ew. Is the whole ensemble not enough for you?” He sweeps a hand down the ripped clothing, the silver chain around his neck and the eyeliner smeared around his waterline. “Fuck this.” Nico sighs, throwing his hands up. “Should I wear a sign around my neck, then? <em>Hello, my name is Nico di Angelo and I suck cock</em>? Honestly.”</p><p>Harry’s never died of embarrassment before, but he thinks he’s almost there.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Halfway there, Nico says he needs to take a piss and then disappears. Harry spends the rest of the train ride looking for him.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The Sorting Hat sings its song, something about uniting the Houses. Harry isn’t listening; Hermione’s scolding him for getting lost in the train. “I wasn’t lost,” Harry mutters, “I was just.” He pauses. “Brooding.”</p><p>Hermione whacks him, and Harry shrinks away, scowling.</p><p>“NICO DI ANGELO,” McGonagall calls, and Harry shoots up, eyes scanning frantically.</p><p>Nico di Angelo saunters out of a crowd of first years. He’s still in ripped jeans and an oversized T shirt. “Why isn’t he in <em>robes</em>?” Hermione hisses, and Harry shrugs, eyes fixed on him.</p><p>Nico slides under the Hat.</p><p>There is a long, long pause, and then the Hat coughs. Another long pause. Nico kicks his feet out and slouches, which Harry didn’t think was possible on a stool.</p><p>Nico laughs. It’s different from the train-ride laughs, a whole different species- low, scraping the bottom of his throat, obliquely threatening. The Hat seems to quiver away from him, wincing where its brim touches Nico’s curls.</p><p>“<em>Oh, non aver paura, tesoro.</em>” Nico says, after a moment. The brim of the Hat throws the uppermost quadrants of his face into deep shadow; Harry can only watch the movements of his mouth. “<em>Non sarei un Tassorosso se fossi il dannato figlio di Helga Tassorosso.</em>” This one-sided back and forth with the Hat continues, McGonagall visibly confused. The Hall throngs with whispers.</p><p>“<em>Un Grifondoro? Avventato e suicida, sì. Coraggioso, no.</em>”</p><p>“I think he’s speaking <em>Italian</em>.” Hermione whispers, mildly impressed. “Yeah,” Harry mutters, “No shit.” She whacks him again.</p><p>“SLYTHERIN!” The Hat cries, voice wrecked, and Nico smirks again and slides off the stool, sauntering to the green and silver table. Harry watches the movements of his hips and tries to suppress a smile at the thought of Malfoy having to deal with Nico’s Muggle snark.</p><p>He keeps his eyes on Nico the whole dinner, watching him. Nico appears to be discussing something with the Bloody Baron, both of them clustered together and speaking intently. The Baron is so close to Nico that they’ve overlapped, the icy grip of his frame breaking around Nico’s shoulders, subsuming him in the glacial liquid of his spectral body. It must be ridiculously uncomfortable, but Nico doesn’t seem to notice.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Harry walks up to him after dinner’s over, asks him where he went during the train ride. Nico looks startled. “I didn’t think you’d care,” He tells Harry, and his words aren’t tinged with bitterness or self-pity, but a brisk matter-of-factness that Harry can’t help but balk at. “See you around, Stalin.” Nico says, after a moment, and turns, ambling along the Slytherin crowd. The shadows seem to reach for him, lustful and wanting.</p><p>Ron and Hermione don’t like him. <em>No</em> one likes Nico- not Malfoy, not Ginny or Neville or <em>anyone</em> besides Harry. (Well. That’s not true- Nico and Luna Lovegood get along like a house on fire. But besides that.)</p><p>“Oh, Harry, he’s just- well, he isn’t that <em>friendly</em>, is he?” Hermione sighs, tucking a coil of hair behind her ear. “He’s creepy as fuck, mate.” Ron says, bluntly. “Gives me the creeps. Worse than Malfoy, almost.”</p><p>“He’s wonderful,” Luna says, dreamily, when Harry asks her. “The shadows want him, the Nargles cluster on his shoulders, the ghosts adore him. He tells me all sorts of things, you know. I think,” She adds, eyes widening conspiratorially, “I think he might be my first <em>friend</em>.”</p><p>The teachers don’t like him, either. McGonagall eyes him with distrust, Hagrid with fear, and Flitwick with terrified curiosity. Firenze watches him, eyes gloaming-dark, and corners him after class to speak in low tones. Nico goes agreeably, eyes glistening with licorice amusement, and strolls out of the classroom ten minutes later, unchanged. Dumbledore’s quite preoccupied, left hand shriveled with necrosis and right hand ushering Harry into his office, dispensing phials of memories into a Pensieve. Nevertheless, his eyes linger on Nico unsettlingly.</p><p>No one calls on him in class; Nico’s smiles are too sharp, too strange, too <em>much</em>. They’re afraid. He lingers around the Forbidden Forest with Luna, comes back with animal skulls in his palms like lost treasure, smelling of leaf mold and loam and bone. “We’ve been feeding the thestrals,” Luna tells him readily. She looks happier than he’s ever seen her, and Harry feels a twinge of guilt for not writing to her during the summer. “The thestrals are absolutely in <em>love</em> with him. The second we step into the Forest,” She laughs, “The very <em>second</em> we step inside, they’re flying to greet us. It <em>is</em> lovely,” Luna grins, clapping her hands together. “It’s like we’re the rulers of the forest. The Ghost King and the Woodland Princess.”</p><p>“The Ghost King?” Harry says, softly.</p><p>Luna’s eyes look <em>ancient</em>. “Oh, yes.” She murmurs, tilting her head this way and that. “I wouldn’t ask too many questions, Harry. The gods don’t take kindly to meddling.”</p><p>Harry opens his mouth to ask another torrent of questions, but she’s already gone, swept in the vast Hogwarts throng of humanity.</p><p>His head feels strange, odd, like it’s pricked all over with slow, silvery needles. A mesh skins his skull, the warp and weft of memory gone dim at the edges… </p><p>Harry blinks. He doesn’t remember why he’s paused, staring blankly at the Hogwarts stones. There’s a vague memory of Luna, the word <em>Ghost King</em> floating tetherless in his mind, but it’s unsettling and he puts it out of his mind.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He feels like he can talk to Nico about <em>anything</em>. Things spill out when they’re together, stories he’s never told anyone: the way Cedric’s face haunts him in dreams, the way Sirius looked falling into the Veil (a perfect curve of limb and tatters, gray eyes wide and laughing), how sometimes he swears the scar he got from the basilisk in second year <em>burns</em>. He tells Nico about watching Dumbledore’s memories of Tom Riddle, and how instead of repulsion, he felt sympathy. <em>Sympathy</em>, for his parent’s murderer. Nico raises a brow and offers snarky commentary.</p><p>It takes him longer than it should to notice that Nico’s told him next to nothing in return. What he knows about Nico are vague, transient, factoids: his dad is rich, he’s gay, he likes Muggle music. The most specific thing he knows about Nico is that he has a sister named Hazel, but Nico shuts down when he tries to prod further, black eyes cold and intransigent.</p><p>Harry doesn’t want to lose him. He stops asking.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>One day, he follows Nico to the Forest. Nico’s got a bag slung around his shoulders. It doesn’t appear to be magical; he hears clinking noises.</p><p>Nico stops, and he shouldn’t be able to hear or see Harry - he’s got the Cloak and a Silencing Charm on his feet - but somehow, he turns around and fixes his eyes on Harry’s. “Come out.”</p><p>Slowly, tremblingly, Harry slides the Cloak off of himself, undoing the Silencing Charm. Nico’s eyes are unbearably cold, and Harry shivers- but then they soften, amused. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”</p><p>Harry flushes, but when he opens his mouth, he finds that he can’t speak.</p><p>“You remind me of my Percy,” Nico says, after a moment. He tilts his head. “The same hair… green eyes… hopelessly self-sacrificing. <em>Di immortales</em>, your type never do know when to <em>stop</em>. Isn’t that right?”</p><p>Harry’s silent. He can’t speak - physically, he cannot speak - and besides, he doesn’t want to. The air of the Forest is horribly chill, glacial and disquieting; the hairs along his forearm stand up on end. There’s a waning light in Nico’s eyes, dwindling and mad, and it’s like his first real sight of him. The months of snark are a facade, a mere barrier to this Nico: unyielding and terrifying, nightmare-sleek and drawling. He thinks he sees a skeletal hand claw from the earth below, gripping the leaves and hauling itself up.</p><p>“Alright,” Nico sighs. He eyes Harry, and paces closer. “I’ll tell you a story, shall I?” He smiles. “Since you’re so curious.”</p><p>“Once upon a time,” He begins, pacing the clearing. The shadows perfume the air around him, thick and clogging. “There was a boy.” He pauses to laugh.</p><p>“The boy was different. Oh, not the way other boys are different, not the way children think they’re different- truly, starkly different. This boy, you see, was the child of a god.”</p><p>Harry inhales, sharply, and Nico’s eyes lock onto his.</p><p>“Not any god,” Nico breathes, cadaverously pale and terribly, horribly attractive. “No, not a child of Demeter or a son of Hermes was he. He was the son of Hades, the Lord of the Underworld, Despot of the Dead. Ancient. Monstrous.”</p><p>Harry closes his eyes. A nightmare, he tells himself.</p><p>“This boy had a sister,” Nico continues, “And maybe she would have understood what it was like, to hold such power - such terrible potential - but she <em>abandoned</em> him. She left him, and then she died, and so the boy was alone.” Nico’s words have become snarls, and Harry shudders.</p><p>“Alone, even among other god-children, even among the one he was doomed to love. So he left, and was truly alone, and he <em>learned</em>. He learned how to raise the dead, and how to move from shadow to shadow. The shades of the dead adored him, and the hellhounds paced at his feet. He was still so in love and so alone. He fought in a war, and he helped save a city. He was welcomed briefly, but he knew it to be temporary. The boy was better alone, and so he left again.”</p><p>Nico slides a sword - blackened steel - out of nothing, inspecting it.</p><p>“Another war. He ventured into the deepest pits of hell, and endured torments. <em>And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up for ever and ever: and they have no rest day nor night, who worship the beast and his image, and whosoever receiveth the mark of his name.</em>” Nico quotes, curls slipping into his eyes. He pauses. “<em>Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels</em>!” </p><p>“I won’t bore you with the details, but the boy won another war, and for the first time, he thought perhaps he could <em>stay</em>. There was another boy, a sunshine boy, and the child of skulls and shadows thought he thought he could forget his first, doomed love. He stayed, and for a while he was happy.” A wistful smile curls on his lips, and Harry stares, bewitched.</p><p>“Of course, the boy was fooling himself.” Nico bent his head.</p><p>“<em>My punishment is greater than I can bear. Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me</em>.” Nico quotes, and there’s an angelic light to his eyes, a new playfulness betwixt his cheekbones. “My ex-boyfriend, Will- he tried,” Nico says, after a moment, abruptly switching to first person.</p><p>Nico pulls his bag from his shoulder and rifles through it, setting the items on the Forest floor. Harry peers at them. They offer no clues. A diadem, an emerald locket, a glittering goblet, and the skull of a snake. They are all ruined in some way, blackened or punched with a blasted hole.</p><p>“He tried, and I loved him for it, but he was a child of Apollo. How could he comprehend the call of the dead? The siren-song of destruction? The urge to wander, to reap the souls of the dead and bring them to their kingdom come, to free the shades of the earth and loose them to their rightful land- he could understand none of it. It wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t understand me.” Nico twists his mouth, annoyed. “We broke up, and I left for the third time. The world welcomed me.”</p><p>Nico sinks down, and the forest floor welcomes him, the earth crying out to him. Harry is immobile, he cannot move or speak, he daren’t disturb the most fractitious remnant of leaf. “The world <em>welcomed</em> me,” Nico repeats, smiling softly. “The canals of Venice, where I was born. The Catacombs of Paris- all those bones, wanting to be touched by a son of Hades. The Pyramids of Giza, the Dead Sea… I lost myself in the world. The world was lost in me.” Nico sighs.</p><p>“The boy found his first love again.” Nico says, switching back to third person. “The one that smelled like sea and salt. He understood better than a child of Apollo ever could, that ceaseless urge to…” Nico pauses. “Destroy. Poseidon was a god of earthquakes as well, you know.”</p><p>Nico spreads his hands. All the shades of the world glitter in his eyes. “Who do I belong to, Harry?”</p><p>Harry can speak again. His throat is dry. He speaks. “Death.”</p><p>“Very good,” Nico whispers, catlike. “Good boy.”</p><p>Harry flushes, and Nico smiles again, walking so close Harry can see every individual freckle, every eyelash. A child of a <em>god</em>. He’s flawless.</p><p>“You’re a hero,” Nico says, softly. His breath brushes Harry’s mouth. It tastes like pomegranates and ashes. “Sweet hero. You’re not meant for me, you know. And I have my own hero.”</p><p>Dizzy, Harry shakes his head.</p><p>“You’ve been good,” Nico relents. “Very good.” He slides closer, tilting his head up- Harry’s taller than him, he notices. It thrills him, the height.</p><p>Nico’s lips brush his- untentative, bold. A tongue slides into his mouth, and Harry’s lost, utterly lost in the newfound liquor kissing: electricity, pomegranates, ash. Something in Harry’s forehead, nestled in the laccolith-chink of his scar, wriggles free. Harry gasps, trying to pull away, but Nico presses closer, tongue sliding against his, and the <em>thing</em> in Harry’s scar pulls free, flying into Nico’s white hand. Nico closes his fist around it.</p><p>“There, that should do it.” Nico murmurs, pulling away. He concentrates on his fist, glaring at it, and there’s a burst of smoking energy. He opens his fist: nothing but ash.</p><p>“Good-bye, Harry.”</p><p>“Wait,” Harry breathes, blinking hard. “Wait-”</p><p>Nico’s gone, melted into the shadows of the Forest.</p><p><br/>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey lookie here, it's me with another hp crossover that I'll most likely never touch again</p><p> please comment</p><p> </p><p> i live and die for comments....</p><p> if you're confused about the ending and about what nico was doing there, ask me about it in the comments and i'll explain.  i just didn't want to ruin my air of cool prose-y mystery in the text/notes</p>
<p> P.S. I'll probably write a companion piece so if you're into that subscribe to the series!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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